Farewell, Happy Fields
by Molly Myles
Summary: There was naught but confusion when it happened. There was no provocation, no warning, no surge of power to indicate what was to come. There was only a brief tingling of borrowed Earthly flesh, a tug of Grace and a subtle push, and then he was falling - cast out alongside his brethren and plummeting toward the mortal plane of Earth. (general fic, no pairings/OCs)
1. One

___Thou art my father, thou art my author, thou my being gavest me;_  
_whom should I obey but thee, whom follow?_

**of Chaos and Eternal Night**

There was naught but confusion when it happened. There was no provocation, no warning, no surge of power to indicate what was to come. There was only a brief tingling of borrowed Earthly flesh, a tug of Grace and a subtle push, and then he was falling - cast out alongside his brethren and plummeting toward the mortal plane of Earth.

Never before in his long existence had he truly experienced fear and pain as he now did; all-encompassing and urgent as he felt his essence burn, the stench of hot ozone choking his senses and stinging his eyes. He could feel the wind tickling the fine hairs on the exposed flesh of his vessel, twisting across his scalp and knotting dark blonde locks.

_Father, give me strength, _he cried into the void as he became dangerously aware of his vessel's heart beating in its chest, the rush of blood in its ears and the dry ache in its throat. He stretched his wings and found that he had not the strength to fly; neither muscle nor sinew would respond to his command, tingling and atrophied as though from disuse.

His ears rang with the pained and panicked cries of his brothers. Chancing to open his eyes, he saw them; brilliant streamers of Heavenly light streaking out of the sky and washing out the very light of the stars, igniting Grace and turning night into day. In vain he reached out, though none were close enough to touch; he would find no comfort there, were there even any to be had.

Instinctively he pulled his battered wings about himself as the ground rushed up to meet him, taking solace this small accord, that he could at least do this. The comfort was short lived, however, as moments later he felt the last of his Grace ripped away, wings torn from him and scattered to the wind as he neared the surface of his Father's creation.

After a brief eternity, he felt himself immersed in cold, liquid darkness, divine senses failing him as he slipped into the black.

* * *

**Awake; Arise or be Forever Fallen**

The air was sweet in contrast with the bitter bile that poured in wretched gasps from his vessel's mouth as he crawled his way up the muddy ground at the edge of the pond. Slime coated his vessel's skin and garb, throat and sinuses clogged with the stuff and he feared that he had gone blind; he could feel, smell, taste his surroundings, sharp and bold and more clearly defined than he had ever felt. What was of him ached in tandem with the pains of his vessel, which he found odd and unsettling. Never before had he felt his vessel's discomfort so acutely, nor sympathised - resonated with that mortal pain in such a way. No angel bar few had done so before.

Lucifer, Gabriel, Metatron, Anael, Castiel; a list so short of those who had come so close to humanity, those who had tasted the fall and become shunned and reviled by their brethren, their stories told to deter dissent.

_Question not thy Father's will, _they would sing, _lest thee come to Lucifer's fate._

_Take thou care and not hasten thyself to sin, lest thee fall as Anael._

_Bind thyself not to thy Father's creation, lest thee be cast into the mortal coil as Castiel._

They were as fables to mortal children; stories of wonton disregard to the will of Heaven and the consequences that followed, stories of horror meant to frighten away the tendrils of independent thoughts and actions that went against the divine will of the Host.

His vessel wretched once more before finally drawing in the breath that it so desperately craved, muscles becoming weak as he felt exhaustion roll over him like a cold fog. He turned over, laying back against the mud and the wet grass, spent and wounded and confused as he turned his blind eyes skyward. He was filled with relief to find that his eyes registered the milky swirl of stars - he wasn't blind, after all - but this darkness that covered him, muting his senses... he could find no cause for it.

It wasn't until he saw the brilliant streaks of flame shoot across the horizon that the events of the last several minutes became clear, accounting for the cold he felt and the ache in his vessel's bones that spoke so clearly to him now; Heaven was falling.

A thousand alien feelings rose to war within his chest, his mind reeling with a thousand unbidden thoughts. What had happened? Was their Father angry? Who had done this? _WHY?_

Again his eyes burned, his throat clenching in a way that frightened him. Desperation, hopelessness, anger, fear; base chemical reactions that should have been suppressed by his Grace. He reached within himself, desperately clutching for any remaining tendril of the divine light within himself, only to draw back empty. He shut his eyes to Listen, but the voices of his brothers were now closed to him.

For the first time in his long existence, he was cold, in pain and so frightfully alone.

* * *

**Into This Wild Abyss**

_Move, _his mind insisted. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a raw nerve. He wondered fretfully if any of his brothers had fallen near. He wondered, blasphemously, if Lucifer had been afraid when Michael had cast him down from the precipice. He wondered shamefully if Anael had felt this pain when she tore out her own Grace. He wondered sympathetically if Castiel had felt this alone and bereft when Michael and Raphael had shut him out from Heaven.

He wondered bitterly if the surface of the Earth, unbuffered by his Grace, was always so damned cold.

In all honesty, he knew little of Earth and the ways of its inhabitants. He had not been stationed here before Heaven had withdrawn over two-thousand years ago, and had only recently taken his first vessel at Hester's request when his garrison had been assigned to collect and instruct the newest prophet, Kevin Tran. He had seen battle, but he was no soldier; he was merely a messenger, a guardian and sometimes a teacher. Gabriel would have been his superior, had the archangel not taken his leave of the Host all those centuries ago.

His mind kept circling these thoughts, these memories as he placed one foot in front of the other on the tarmac, arms wrapped about himself in a vain attempt to quell the shivering of his flesh - it was his flesh now, he realised. The thought that his gracious and pius host was no more brought the stinging to his eyes again, blurring his vision of the road ahead. Remorse and anguish coursed through him at the realization, nearly faltering his step as a choked sob escaped his lips. The sound surprised him and he stopped, head canted to the side, both curious and horrified at the lack of control he had over his emotions.

Panic gripped his soul as reality ebbed in around him, quickening his breath and causing his blood to turn cold; he was mortal, human, cast out from Heaven and devoid of his Grace. He had never spent time in the company of humans, didn't know how to survive as one. He stopped short of grieving for himself, suddenly ashamed of his ego and broken pride. It was unbecoming to mourn his own loss so; it was selfish and against the nature of his being, so very _human_ to feel pity for himself.

He cast his eyes to the Heavens, searching the stars. No longer did he see his brothers fall burning from the skies, and that came as some relief. It was heartbreaking to witness everything he had ever known fall in ruin.

"What might Castiel do," he wondered aloud in Enochian, the words falling from his lips wrapped in a heavy sigh. Castiel would make do, he supposed. Always since pulling the Righteous Man from Hell he had been close to humanity, immersed in their ways and fighting for them, even when it went against the will of the Host. He would likely have his human charges - his friends - to catch him as he fell. "I have no 'friends'," he muttered to himself, picking himself up.

A part of him admired Castiel's bravery and devotion to their Father's greatest creation. He himself revered the intricate design, though he did not understand it half so well. Many tried to vilify Castiel, to liken him to Lucifer, but no. Castiel loved humankind, just as their father had intended, and he protected it with his life.

With a sigh, already feeling the pains of mortality, he set upon the road again with composure, following the faint light that hovered over the horizon. He didn't know where he was going, nor to what end, but his thoughts urged him on. _Move. You cannot remain here. You must seek assistance. Castiel has faith in humans. He has sacrificed himself for humanity many times, they may help you._

And so he would seek the assistance of mortal men.

* * *

**What Hath Night to Do With Sleep?**

His limbs felt leaden, feet dragging across the concrete as he trudged past houses and lawns and vehicles. The lanterns lining the streets had flickered off, the sun's rays beginning to spill over the horizon to the East, painting the canvas of Earth and sky in hues of pink and gold.

It had seemed hours that he had walked along the darkened road, his wet, grimed covered clothing becoming more and more uncomfortable as the chill seeped into his flesh. The sun was a welcome comfort, warming the Earth and his soul after the long, dark night. He was no longer a stranger to misery, this ordeal bringing him close to breaking his spirit, but he followed the advice of the voice at the back of his consciousness to keep going, keep moving, keep walking; find help, find people, find shelter and safety.

His head hung low, scarcely able to hold it upright any longer. He felt his strength waning, muscles burning and his eyes felt sticky and strained. To add to his discomfort, a new pain had begun to gnaw at his insides, growing more and more incessant as the light grew brighter and brighter.

By the time the sun had climbed into the sky in its full glory, he felt a curious and terrifying sensation fall over him; as he trod onward, his eyes fell closed and consciousness briefly fled from him, snapping back as he stumbled to his knees in the soft, dew-covered grass in front of a small brown house. He became instantly alert, terror welling within him as he scrambled back to his feet, nearly falling over backwards in his panic.

_What was that, _his mind worried, the beating of his heart quickening his mind, his senses sharpening to his surroundings. He had never felt such weariness, had never before met with any lapse in his awareness. The experience was new and terrifying.

_Mortality will drive me mad, _he mused to the lightening blue sky, _we are not made to withstand such discomforts._

His legs began to shake as the panic faded, the ache and weariness returning to his limbs. He sat down on the plush lawn to gather his thoughts as a darkness crept across his soul, hopelessness eating its way into his heart. For a moment, he closed his eyes, and the darkness surged up to swallow him whole.

* * *

**This Horror Will Grow Mild, This Darkness Light**

When awareness rejoined him, he was laying on something soft and conforming, a comfortable weight resting over him, leaching away the cold from his flesh. His clothes were dry, no longer clinging to him and chaffing his skin. Though disconcerted by this turn, he felt far too comfortable to panic, too tired to question it. His jacket, tie and shoes had been removed - an odd sensation he had never considered when he had merely worn his vessel; it felt rather liberating. His muscles still ached, but he found that it was dull and distant, a soreness that was bearable against the burning ache and weariness he had felt when walking along the dark road.

He remained still, allowing wide eyes to roam around the room he'd woken to; it was simple, modest, adorned in pleasing tones of earthen hues and gilt. He had never been inside a human dwelling, having only visited places of commerce and business in his dealings in the past. The closest he had come had been when he and Hester had been sent to collect the prophet of the Word of God, having found Castiel sequestered in a place of sickness and again in the hunters' cabin. Neither place had been a home, nor had they a hearth. He could no longer see the bindings of home and family as once he may have, but he could sense its power nonetheless. Above all, he felt no fear here; he felt safe.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, drawing in the intoxicating scent of something sweet and light that pleased his senses but caused the gnawing ache in his stomach to make itself known ever more sharply.

_I must be feeling hunger, _he mused to himself, both frightened and intrigued by the thought. Human needs and customs had long intrigued him, though he had always been too timid to attempt to partake in any of it. Others of his brethren had attempted to blend with the world they had been assigned to, taking great pleasure in interacting with different cultures and peoples the world around. He had only watched from afar, preferring to observe though the desire to immerse himself, to taste and touch and learn, had no doubt lurked at the back of his thoughts.

He startled and shot upright, muscles tensed defensively as someone came into view; a human woman, stately and sturdy with thick coils of black hair nestled tight, peppered with points of starlit silver and wrapped in a colourful scarf about the crown of her head. Her age was indeterminate, mature yet not old, youthful but not young. Her large, reumy brown eyes regarded him thoughtfully from a round, coffee-complected face as she set down a little tray on the table beside him, bearing a plate upon which sat some type of bread topped with thick white cream and a cup filled with dark, steaming liquid, the combined scents of which bombarded him with sugary sweetness and rich herbal undertones.

"I figured you might be hungry when you woke," she drawled in a lilting Southern accent. "You been out better'n a day."

Unsure of how to respond, he merely sat coiled at the end of the sofa, watching her warily as she moved around the little table to collect the discarded pillow and blanket. She watched him as she folded the blanket, dark eyes seeming to pierce into him.

"Mm," she exclaimed, shaking her head, "you sure done had it rough, didn't you. Found you sprawled out on my lawn yes'day mornin', sound asleep. Woulda called you an ambulance, but there's somethin' different 'bout you, isn't there..."

She set the bundle of comforter and down on top of a wooden chest beneath the white-curtained window, moving to settle into a comfortable looking green wing-back chair opposite the stunned fallen angel. He nearly held his breath as she picked up a brown ceramic cup from the table beside her chair, taking a sip and humming her appreciation before setting it back down.

"My name's Missouri. Guess you could say I got a soft spot for hard-luck cases such as yourself. I seen what happened the other night. Lived out here under the stars long enough to know that weren't no meteor shower."

He glanced around the room, finally mustering the courage to break eye contact with the woman - Missouri - and relax somewhat. She meant him no harm, obviously, and had cared for him when he had been vulnerable. The tray on the table caught his eye again, curiosity urging his hand as he reached out for the cup, holding it in both hands she had done.

"Careful," she warned, not looking up as she unfolded a newspaper in her lap, "water's a bit hot. Don't wanna burn yourself."

His eyes moved warily to the dark contents of the cup, watching in mild fascination as tendrils of steam rose from the surface. The warmth through the thick ceramic felt soothing to his hands, the aroma tantalising. Experimentally, he brought it to his lips and took a tentative sip; it was hot, but pleasant, the warmth sliding into him and easing his parched throat. He closed his eyes, a contented hum rising from his chest as he savoured the taste; earthy with a hint of spice. His vessel remembered these things for him, cataloguing them as one might find described in a text. Experiencing it, however, was something new and exciting, and he wondered to himself why he had abstained for so long.

"Glad to see you like tea," she smiled gently at him over the top of the newspaper, "thought you would. Didn't peg you for a coffee drinker."

He glanced up at her, setting the cup down and turning his attention to the plate. Gingerly, he picked up the pastry, picking at it experimentally. The sweet scent struck him again, eliciting the dull ache inside him that he was beginning to associate with hunger. He tore off a small piece delicately from the end, the pastry pulling apart in a sticky coil. He glanced up at Missouri questioningly, but she just smiled briefly at him and continued to read, leaving him to his own devices.

Undeterred and with an instinctively basic idea of how this was supposed to work, he brought the bit of pastry to his mouth, eyes widening as he was overwhelmed by its sweetness, again with just a hint of spice. _Cinnamon_, his mind supplied from the reservoir of knowledge acquired through the eons and his vessel's own physical memory, finding the taste more than agreeable.

Missouri chuckled softly to herself, shaking her head. "You are somethin'," she spoke to the room; whether to herself or to him was unclear.

"Inias," he murmured softly, as though intimidated by the sound of his own voice. "Thank you."

Missouri smiled at him, folding the paper and holding it in her lap as she held his gaze. "The Lord abides, Inias," she told him. "I believe He watches out for his flock. We're all his children, I think he'd want us to look after each other in times of darkness, wouldn't you say?"

Inias felt himself smile, his soul feeling lighter than he thought possible since his plummet to Earth. He found himself liking this woman; she was kind, wise and seemed possessed of a sixth sense, one of God's gifted. She was selfless, not questioning him or pressing him, and he found her mere presence a comfort. Through his brief encounters with humans in the past, he had found most to be wound tight, coiled and even volatile. Missouri was quite different, seeming relaxed almost to the point of indifference, seeming to know that he was not of her flock and yet accepting him despite the fact.

"I think that He would, yes," he quietly agreed as a pulled off another layer of sweet pastry, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth at the way the sticky, sugary goo inside stretched between the two pieces before breaking apart , tendrils snapping back as he studied them before devouring it, quickly becoming enamoured with the sweetness and the soft, buttery texture.

He felt Missouri's eyes on him as he devoured the last bits of the pastry, licking the sugary remnants from his fingers with relish. Despite the inherent awfulness of finding himself lost and fallen, perhaps not all of being mortal was so terrible. He glanced up to catch his host's smile as she levered herself up from the chair.

"Come on," she urged him to follow as she made her way out of the room, "now you're rested and fed, let's get you cleaned up and in some clean clothes. Mayhap I got somethin' you can put on you. My late husband was a twig, skinny little white boy like you should fit his things fine."

Inias rose from his seat, eyebrows drawn together, deep in thought. He hadn't considered his attire any more than he had his shoes or jacket, though since she had mentioned it he had become aware of the fact that he was still filthy with dried pond scum from when he had crashed to Earth.

"I do not wish to burden you," he informed her, "already you have done much for me."

A mirthful chuckle greeted him in response. "Oh, honey. He's gone on nigh fifteen years now, gone home to his final rest. He won't be missin' em, and I think they'd do you better than sitting in some musty old closet."

Something clenched painfully in Inias' chest and he stopped, clutching at his shirt over his vessel's- _his _heart. Home. He had been abruptly expelled from his home, everything he knew torn away from him in a senseless instant. He had no answers, no way to return, no way to find his brothers in this wide human world. He was Graceless, hopeless, _homeless_.

He felt his knees shudder beneath his weight as his strength gave out, his eyes burning as he felt tears gathering there, something hot and barbed lodging itself in his throat.

Missouri stopped and turned toward him, seeming to sense his pain. Inias found it strange and yet comforting when the woman put her arms around him, pulling his head down against her shoulder. Uncertain of how to respond, he let his arms hang limp at his sides, allowing this human who had cared for him to soothe him.

"Shh, hush now, it's ain't all that bad," she cooed to him, "the Lord works in mysterious ways. He brought you to me, after all. Ain't no fall you walk away from gonna kill you. Right now you're lost and you're hurt, but you stay here as long as you need, child, and I'll see to it you're get on your feet."

Tentatively, he returned her embrace, grateful in ways he had never imagined for the mercy and kindness of his Father's greatest creation. Perhaps He had spoken to Inias, led him here, urged him to move onward despite his pain and confusion and sorrow.

* * *

(**A/N: **Okay, so this is totally random. Not really sure where this hit me from, but I wanted to get the perspective of an angel who was _not _Castiel dealing with the aftermath of Metatron expelling everyone from Heaven. Despite his like two minutes of screen time, I've always kind of liked Inias, right up there with Samandriel, and though it pains me to put the poor guy through all this crap, he was ideal for a bit of angst and naivety without the explosive drama of one of the higher-and-mightier types.

Missouri seemed like a decent choice at the time; caring but no-nonsense and tough as well as 'intuitive'. I've always loved her character, and I really, really hope that I portrayed her okay... and that I didn't make her speech patterns too cliché ._. I really didn't want to use an OC for the role, and I wanted to do something with Missouri anyway.

If there's an interest in this, I may continue it :) review and let me know.

Title, quotes and headers borrowed from John Milton's _Paradise Lost_)


	2. Two

_A mind not to be changed by place or time;  
The mind is its own place, and in itself  
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven;  
What matter where, if I still be the same..._

**Phantasms and Dreams**

He could see for miles, standing upon the edge of the endless fields of blue. The sun overhead floated upon a vinculum of indignant cumulo-stratus, dividing Heaven and Earth with haughty disregard. Thorned roses coiled nearby, sticky petals frosted white and cloying the air with saccharine sweetness. Somewhere a meadowlark inferred in its song the basic principles of neutrinos applied to the inside peel of a banana, and the grass prickled its disagreement with general relativity.

In a distant sea, pretentious penguins put on smug bow ties, embarking on whales to feasts of grandeur, passed along over bitter waves of grain as fiery comets streaked across the sky.

_Whales should have wheels, _he thought. His Father whole-heartedly agreed, thus making it so.

In conspiracy with the bees, he plucked a cinnamon-coloured bloom from its recalcitrant vine and peeled the petals off one by one, laying them in a line across his tongue. The words he spoke would thus be wise, his countenance held for fire and air given form and voice.

"You're in good hands with Allstate," his voice rang out under the whorls of stars, and even the grass could not redact his wisdom.

A bell chimed at the heart of the cosmos, interchanging dark with light.

Inias opened his eyes, staring wide-eyed at the cool white ceiling of the room he'd been assigned the night prior, his mind reeling with the strangeness of his own thoughts as he listened to the soft, vocal music scratch out across the hardwood floor beneath the bedroom door. Was this it? Had he gone mad? The visions his mind had supplied during his rest had been as confusing as they had been disturbing. Penguins did not wear bow ties that he was aware of, nor did whales require wheels.

For several long minutes he pondered the meaning of his mind's theatre, wondering what the strange visions could mean as the morning sunlight grew brighter through the cracks in the curtains.

* * *

**Flesh of Flesh, Bone of Bone Thou Art**

Mid-morning found Inias hovering near the door leading from Missouri's kitchen to the back yard, shifting his weight nervously from one bare foot to the other, fidgeting with the long sleeves of the dark blue satin pyjamas he still wore.

Missouri was out in the yard, kneeling at the edge of a patch of flowers with her hands in the earth, the kitchen radio pumping out a pleasing tune as she sang along with the rich feminine vocalist. He was reluctant to join her or to make himself known, not wanting to disrupt her routine and contenting himself to close his eyes and let the sound and the fresh morning air wash over him.

"_Birds flyin' high, you know how I feel; Sun in the sky, you know how I feel; Breeze driftin' on by, you know how I feel; It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me; And I'm feelin' good..._"

It was strange how the words of the song made him feel both sad and happy at the same time. There was bitter-sweetness to the music, something mournful and yet simultaneously joyous, longing and accepting, contradictory in ways that he couldn't begin to understand. It was a puzzle, complex and beautiful, and he marvelled at the way that the sound alone could have such a profound effect, nevermind the words that came with it.

"Mornin', Sunshine," her voice broke through his reverie, "you just gonna stand there in your P.J.'s darkening my doorway all day?"

Inias felt his face warm as he opened his eyes to find her watching him as he lurked just inside the screen door and wondered if he had done something wrong. Perhaps he was intruding, or should simply have made his presence known. There were so many unspoken rules...

"Go on," she continued, an easy smile softening her features, "go get some real clothes on you and come out here and gimme a hand with these weeds."

Frowning, he turned to do as he was bade, glancing down at his attire and wondering what precisely was wrong with what he was wearing; it was cool and comfortable and he enjoyed the way it felt against his skin. As a being of light and intent, he hadn't needed to bother with such things, and his vessel's garb had been sufficient. Matters of wardrobe were as confounding as silverware (which he had been introduced to the previous night during 'supper').

He decided, almost at random, on a pair of light blue denim jeans and a and a soft, bright green t-shirt that bore the silhouette of a horse's head and the words 'Rolling Rock Co Fair' in a circular pattern. He didn't much care what the message on the garment was, but he liked the texture of it and found the colour pleasing to the eye.

For a moment, he considered the flat, black leather shoes that his vessel had worn, wriggling naked toes into the plush area rug under his feet and liking the sensation. That was all it took for him to decide that he abhorred shoes, surprising himself that he felt so strongly about it. How strange was it that he had gone from blissful indifference to having preferences in only two days of being mortal. The thought gave him a conflicting sense of pride and trepidation.

He briefly considered the sum of his mortal experience, weighing each in his mind as he pondered whether there was anything else that stacked up for or against his favour. Everything he had encountered so far had been new and exciting, he didn't know if he was capable of quantifying the tastes and scents and sensations in terms of likes and dislikes just yet.

His thoughts darkened as he ruminated on all of things both wonderful and terrible he had encountered since the mass expulsion from Heaven. Were his brethren faring as well? Had they encountered a kindred mortal to ease their aching hearts and tired souls? Helplessly his mind wandered to murky territories, unwanted images of what might have been had he not landed where he did, or if he had not found himself in Missouri's care. He did not imagine he would have thrived without guidance - he was still floundering even under his host's guiding hand.

Stepping hesitantly out onto the back porch, he turned his gaze toward the cloudless blue sky, wondering if there were any who remained, missing his home and his family like a physical void in his chest. He missed the familiarity of it, the detached, incorporeal state that had been his entire existence. He missed the hum of his Grace, the numbing warmth of being distant within the flesh he wore.

Despair encroached upon his heart as he stood at the end of the stone pathway leading to Missouri's garden, watching in silence, arms hanging limp and awkward at his sides. How did mortals do this? Was it because a finite existence was all they knew? Because they had accepted mortality with the knowledge that, some day, their existence would end? It began to seem pointless; this ritual of survival, the cycles of each day passing with the Sun, toiling and aching - it was wearying to the soul. Angels were not made for this; they were eternal, undying manifestations of of God's love and light, made to serve and worship. How was he to serve these needs that were so suddenly thrust upon him? How was he to forge a path without Heaven's light to guide him?

Again, Missouri's intuitive nature seemed to sense the darkness welling within his heart and she turned, watching him from her spot in the grass.

"Well, come on," she urged, motioning to him as he brought his eyes up to acknowledge her, "don't be shy, come on over here. I'll show you a thing or two about toilin' in the earth."

Inias swallowed down his thoughts, pushing them away to be dissected later. This woman had been so kind, he did not wish to burden her with his sorrows after all she had done, all she continued to do for him. He stepped into the soft, damp grass, making his way across the lot to stand beside her, waiting for further instruction.

Missouri chuckled and turned back toward the flowers. They were lovely; lacking any formal arrangement, placed seemingly at random and chosen simply because they were beautiful, not because they fit any sort of pattern or aesthetic. There were colourful snapdragons, daisies, bachelor buttons and dragon's tears, vibrant and alive in the soft tilled soil.

He blinked as she huffed in amusement, lightly whapping his shin with the back of one soil-covered hand. "Come on, get down in the dirt - ain't gonna hurt you none just 'coz you're human now, is it?"

A weak smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he knelt beside her, watching her calloused brown hands as they set back to work in the dirt, fingers working beneath a dandylion start, hooking around the root and yanking it out.

"I don't mind 'em none, truth be told," she said, chatting idly as she moved on to another, "they get a bit wild though if you leave 'em to run amok in your flowers, choke the life right out of 'em."

Inias tilted his head to the side, contemplating this. It had seemed odd to him to favour one plant over another based on their aesthetic, none of the plants represented in this garden being essential to human survival.

Anxiously, he glanced over the space in front of him and saw several more of the weeds within reach. Missouri hadn't instructed him beyond kneeling beside her, and so he was unsure of what he was meant to be doing here. He looked to his side, watching his gracious host for a moment in hopes that she might command him in some way beyond his mere presence beside her, but her focus had returned solely to the task at hand.

Tentatively he reached out, brushing his fingers across the topsoil around one of the offending weeds, shifting his eyes back to the woman to gage her reaction. Seeing none, he attempted to emulate her actions, working his fingers into the dirt and curling his finger experimentally around the base of the plant, surprised when it pulled free easily.

"The glory of gardening," Missouri mused aloud, "hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body, but the soul."*

Glancing askance at her, Inias tilted his head, a small frown creasing his brow, considering her words. The work was repetitive and seemingly unending; no matter how many of the invading plants were removed, more would inevitably take their place, necessitating the work all over again. It seemed futile, though the routine, the repetition, allowed the mind to focus on the task as thoughts wandered their own course. The connection to the Earth nourished the soul, allowing one to feel connected to God's creation.

They worked together in silence through the morning, until Missouri finally rose and declared it time for lunch.

Inias was fascinated by the warm ache in his arms, knees and back as he washed the soil from his hands in the kitchen sink. It wasn't like the pain and exhaustion from falling and then wandering miles in the night; it was almost gratifying, and he realised that the dull burn in his muscles from the honest work was something of a comfort.

* * *

**To be Weak is Miserable; Doing or Suffering**

Inias stood at the counter, mesmerized by the crimson bead that was forming from the shallow slit on the end of his finger. Missouri had shown him how to hold the knife, how to bring weight down upon the haft of the blade to slice through the crisp, green cucumber. He had been doing well, had sliced half of the thing into neat, uniform disks - he didn't know where he had gone wrong.

A flicker of fear danced through him as the bead welled and dripped down side of his finger; it wasn't stopping. He had never bled before, not like this. Any minor injuries his vessel had sustained before had been healed by his Grace so quickly that he barely had time to recognize it for what it was. This was his form now, and his life-blood was leaking from him at a steady trickle. In a panic, he dropped the knife on the counter with a loud clatter, causing Missouri to look over from her station at the stove.

"What've you done to yourself now," she asked, removing the cast iron skillet from the hot burner so that the thin strips of chicken wouldn't burn and moving to his side. "Let me see."

"It won't stop," Inias declared in a quavering voice, the fingers of his uninjured hand hovering hesitantly over the cut, as though his left hand had suddenly become somehow tainted, untouchable. "I can't make it stop..."

Missouri, with all the patience of a saint, gently took his hand in her own and inspected the wound. With a smile, she patted him on the arm with her free hand and tugged him toward the sink and flipping on the tap. He eyed her skeptically as she pulled his hand down to the stream, cold water washing away the blood and swirling down into the drain.

He watched in fascination as the small cut oozed out a few more drops of red before stopping altogether, leaving just a small crease in his flesh.

"Barely a nick," Missouri soothed, smiling at the astounded look on the fallen angel's face, "you'll live."

Inias was fascinated by the trick, pulling his hand from under the water to inspect the no-longer-bleeding cut as Missouri retrieved a band-aid from a little plastic kit under the sink, drying his hand with a dish cloth and affixing the adhesive strip around his finger.

The day moved on, his world didn't end, and the chicken strips didn't burn.

* * *

(**A/N: **The dream in the first part is actually sort of a 'greatest hits' of my own weird-ass dreams o_o; The penguins and whales bit is one that is often a topic of discussion, as I apparently talk in my sleep...

I'm just going to post these musings as they come to me. I'm not sure if there's going to be any form of plot injection to this. It's possible, at some point, that I might tie this to main canon characters... if anyone has any suggestions on what I should throw at Inias, feel free to drop them in a review and I'll try to work it in :) Just keep in mind I don't intend to do any slash and the rating isn't going to change if I can help it. Though, if a certain Winchester ever makes an appearance, it might have to bump it to "T" for language...

Lyrics are from _Feeling Good _by Nina Simone, also famously covered by the band Muse

*****"The Glory of Gardening; hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body, but the soul." - Quote by Alfred Austin.

Headers and other quotes from John Milton's _Paradise Lost_.)


	3. Three

Nor love thy life, nor hate;  
but what thou liv'st  
Live well, how long or short, permit to Heaven.

**What is Dark Within Me, Illuminate**

Automobiles are positively wretched devices.

Inias found himself enjoying little about the conveyance; it was confining, claustrophobic, and he had no control over its speed or trajectory. He tried to fix his attention on the passing scenery, but found that the dizzying speed at which they were traveling made it difficult not to notice how quickly objects on the roadside passed by. It was nauseating. The safety belt pulled over his chest and buckled at his waist felt restrictive and rubbed irritatingly against his neck, irritating his skin. The whole experience was uncomfortable and nauseating.

Missouri seemed to have no complaints, hands lightly on the wheel and humming along with the soft music that played over the vehicle's raspy old stereo. He understood her wanting him to go with her on this little adventure; it had barely been a week and he wasn't ready to be left completely on his own just yet. He took no offense, his gracious host had allowed him his independance rather than mothering his every step, but took comfort that she had brought him along rather than leaving him to fend utterly for himself.

But this, speeding along Massachusetts Street past businesses and trees and teenagers on bicycles and dog walkers, it made him feel so very human.

One wrong move, one turn of the wheel, if that dog were to break away, or if that girl in the green dress were to lose control of her bike and tumble... it was all so mortal, so trivial and finite. Any one of the hundreds of souls along this strip could easily expire in an instant, as could he. The red and green lights that regulate motor traffic could malfunction or, being reliant on the humans that operated the vehicles paying attention to their patterns, another driver could miss their cue and drive through at the wrong time, destroying the metal box they were hurtling Southward in.

Neither speed nor confinement had been of concern to him when he had been an angel, but now that his Grace was gone he found himself loathe to both. He didn't know if he would be able to bring himself to re-enter the vehicle once their mission was complete, wondered if perhaps he should ask Missouri for instructions to walk back to her home. He thought he might enjoy a walk, soaking up the sun's rays and breathing in the dry Summer air, but there were so many people on the streets he thought he might become lost along the way.

_Have faith, _his mind thought placidly at him, _your life is not endangered. You are watched over, have faith and be patient._

He closed his eyes, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his seat and prayed under his breath for it to end quickly.

Ten terrifying minutes after setting out from Missouri's driveway found the battered green 1974 Delta 88 rattling into cracked parking lot of Dillon's Market and a very grateful former angel of the Lord clamoring at his seatbelt in his haste to escape the glass and steel coffin.

Inias had heard stories of the marketplaces at Agora in Athens, Souk al Hamidiyeh in Damascus, and the Forums in Rome; wide open spaces packed with merchants peddling wares from textiles to produce to livestock. His brothers would tell of the din and the cacophony of sights and scents, the pure, raw human-ness of it.

The city supermarket was not quite what Inias had pictured, but the general disregard many seemed to have for their surroundings gave him a better mental image of what those ancient marketplaces may have been like.

He hung close to Missouri's side as they moved about the store, his gracious host seeming unperturbed by the clusters of moving bodies around them, filling the basket as they went. Anxiety hung over him like a shroud. Already he was eager to return to the woman's home and spend the remainder of the day meditating in the little garden behind the house. The human world was noise and madness, senseless purpose, violent to varying degrees and self-absorbed.

By the time they reached the aisles where the shelves were enclosed in glass, Inias felt light-headed. He found himself leaning against one of the cold case doors, trying in vain to steady his reeling thoughts and quickened breath. A light touch on his arm startled him and he whipped around, ready to defend himself, only to encounter a familiar face and concerned brown eyes.

"There's a bench out front by the door," Missouri said, turning back to the cart once she knew she had the fallen angel's attention, "why don't you go on and wait there."

Inias clung to the directive, making his way toward the front of the establishment and exiting into the hot, dry afternoon sun. The bench was in the shade, not too far from the door but far enough removed from the bustle of shoppers in ingress and egress of the store. Settling himself, he found the activity around him somewhat calming, removed and observing as he had for eons before crashing into Earth. It was amazing how such primitive creatures lived such complex lives, all the intricacies of humanity setting them apart from the rest of creation.

"Inias?" a petit, bare-footed woman with flame red hair and pale blue eyes approached him as he sat on the bench. She was clad in a simple, pale yellow cotton shift, her hair flowing over his shoulders in a wild tangle. She was bruised and covered in filth and stared at him with wide, glassy eyes.

"Diom," he acknowledged her, rising from his place on the bench. He knew her, vaguely. She was not of his garrison, not one of his brethren with whom he had acquainted himself well.

"Inias!" she cried, raising her hands to the Heavens and whooping in elation, drawing the attention of the human shoppers entering and exiting the market. Her reaction made him feel uncharacteristically uncomfortable, sensing the seeds of madness that seemed to have taken root in his fallen sister. "We have fallen," she continued in Enochian, speaking rapidly as her eyes darted around the lot, "the traitor, Castiel, he is to blame! Come with me, brother, and avenge Heaven! We will hunt the infidel, crucify him as once was fitting of such offense!"

Inias paled. Was Castiel to blame? No. He refused to acknowledge her accusation as truth. "There must be some mistake," he replied, his own native tongue feeling foreign in his mouth as he spoke, "Castiel has atoned for his sins. He was lost and mad, he would not wish such tragedy upon us now."

"You are wrong, brother," Diom countered, her expression smug and filled with vengeful wrath, "he has murdered Ion and unearthed the Voice of the Father. He took the Word for himself and together he and Metatron expelled us all."

"And who is to say it was not Metatron who twisted Castiel to his purpose?" Inias tried to reason, tried to rationalize. Castiel had once been his superior in the garrison. Inias had looked up to him, had even seen the logic in Castiel's plot to reform Heaven after ending Raphael's campaign to restart the Apocalypse. He had seen what the aftermath had reducedhis former captain to after the folly of consuming the souls of Purgatory, allowing that power to control him and laying waste to much of Heaven. His heart had ached for his broken brother, and he had forgiven him his sins as their Father would have wanted.

"What does it matter, Inias!" Diom cried, her words turning cold. "He has sought nothing but the destruction of Heaven since he pulled the Righteous Man from Hell! His Grace and soul were irreparably tainted with Hellfire! He was corrupted by human pride and sin! Infidel! You stand beside him, don't you brother? Traitor! Infidel! I name thee as the Morning Star; may you burn in the pits of Perdition for eternity! HERETIC! Wallow in your human filth as you so choose and die a slow and meaningless death!"

Inias was stunned, backing away from his fallen sister, unable to absorb what he was seeing and hearing. How was she so certain? Had she seen for herself the cause of their fall? Had Castiel truly been the cause, alongside Metatron? No. Castiel had been driven mad with his grief, had exiled himself from Heaven in remorse for his actions. The last he had spoken to his garrison mate, he had chosen solitude over returning, letting Heaven take its own course.

Diom was shrieking at him now, most of her words unintelligable. This was what madness looked like; shrieking, fingers clawed and slicing at the air. How many others were as she was, bitter and broken and desperately seeking someone to accuse?

"Diom, please," he pleaded, reaching out to placate and sooth her.

The mad angel shrieked and launched herself at Inias, claw-like hands reaching for his eyes as she knocked him on his ass on the paved walkway. He was too stunned by the attack to defend himself, struck numb by Diom's behaviour. She had once held a reputation as quiet, patient and timid in nature - this shrieking harpy was far from what he had seen and heard of his fallen sister.

In a blink, she was pulled off of him, kicking and screeching and gnashing teeth at the large tattooed man holding her firmly in his grip. A blonde woman in a gauzy white dress had a phone to her ear and another man was helping Inias to his feet, asking if he was all right as he was led back to the bench.

His head was swimming; too much was happening at once and he had not the capacity to sort it all out. He put his head in his hands, blocking out the voices around him until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

Inias glanced up, eyes wet and face burning to find Missouri standing over him with compassion written in every crease and line of her face.

"Ready to go?" she asked quietly.

He nodded eagerly, standing and ducking his head to avoid the looks from the crowd that had gathered as Diom was put into the back of a black vehicle with flashing red and blue lights atop it, still screaming at him and damning him and Castiel and all of Creation.

* * *

Missouri didn't press, didn't ask him what was on his mind, didn't try to talk to him about what had happened at the market, but she watched him.

Inias could feel her eyes on him, patient, waiting, as if she knew he wanted to speak but hadn't yet found the words to say what was in his heart. He sat in the back yard on the little wood and rought iron park bench, shaken from the ordeal of being confronted by one of his brethren in such a manner. He calmed himself by breathing deeply the scents of warm wood and aromatic flowers, watching a red brested humming bird flirt with the hanging lilac that drooped overhead. He felt a pang in his chest watching the bird, his soul soaked in anguish missing his own wings and missing the warmth of Heaven's light. He grieved for Diom, and for all of his brothers and sisters who were now stuck here in this world - lost and without hope.

He wondered if Castiel was here as well, if he had been cast out among them, and whether or not his assumptions of Metatron were true, based on what he'd learned from Diom.

Closing his eyes, he sent a silent prayer prayer of thanks to his Father for guiding him to Missouri, for not allowing him to become as Diom had - alone and mad with vengence and grief for what had befallen him. His heart broke at the thought of his sister and the state she had been in, and wondered morbidly if he might not have been the same had the kind psychic not taken him in.

He felt a weight settle beside him and opened his eyes, glancing at the stout woman who now sat beside him, holding a glass filled with ice and slice lemons and strawberries out to him. He took it politely and sipped, surprised by the contrast of sweet and tart that washed over his senses.

For a long time they simply sat in silence, and Inias took solace from the company of his new human friend. He wondered not for the first time if his Father truly had guided him to this place, but why? Why him and not another? Why should he be shown favour and mercy when so many others who had been more serving, more pius and more deserving than he?

Inias sighed, looking down past his glass to his feet, wriggling his toes into the soft grass and moss. "Diom held high honor within her garrison," he murmured, tracking a determined pill beetle's progress as he spoke, "I do not understand why she would say such things, why she would turn to wrath..."

"Sometimes when people hurt," Missouri said, breaking the long silence, "we go lookin' for somewhere to lash out and lay the blame. It's human nature to want to strike down that which causes us pain."

Inias turned and looked at her, head canted to the side, frowning thoughtfully. She hadn't come right out and said it, neither had he admitted it, but surely she knew he and his brethren were not human? Mortal now, yes, but never human.

"I know this is all new to you," she continued, "ya'll've been tossed to the wolves and now it's sink or swim. I can't begin to imagine what it must be like to go from bein' what you were to bein' human, I can only guess it must be like losin' your arms and legs and goin' blind and deaf at the same time."

He gave her a sad smile, looking back down into the shifting ice in his glass. It sounded awful, the way she said it, and to some degree it was true. But there was much more than that. "It isn't so terrible," he admitted, setting his glass of lemonade aside. "The worst is not knowing what has befallen us. It is as if you were to wake tomorrow beneath the pyramids of Egypt - you would not know how you came to be there or why, and though you are familiar with the legend you do not know the ways of the land nor its people. You see though the sand stings your eyes, you hear though the wind howls in your ears... everything is at once different and yet the same. I dislike shoes and sleeping yet I find myself enjoying staying late in the bed. And bacon. Also television. And I find showering simultaneously relaxing and tedious, which makes no sense, much like the rest of human behaviour. The dichotomy that humans bear is... frustrating and wonderful. To us it is black or it is white, rarely is there grey. You choose freely and your choices are remarkable, you make mistakes and move on to make good as you learn. Angels were given free will as well, though we do not wield it half as adept as you. It is as though we are incapable of learning."

Missouri stared at him, her expression unreadable and he found himself squirming under her intense brown eyes. He cleared his throat, picking up his glass and taking an awkward sip.

He almost dropped the cold beverage when Missouri let out a loud, good-natured laugh, placing one hand on his shoulder as she doubled forward. He looked at her curiously, wondering what he had done to elicit this reaction.

"Boy," she remarked, wiping a tear from one eye, "I think that's more than you've said in all the time you've been here."

Inias smiled uncertainly at her as she patted his shoulder, smiling gently.

"I think you're adapting just fine, if I do say so myself," Missouri said, settling back against the bench with both hands around her glass. "It takes time, and you'll learn if you're willin', just like the rest of 'em. You gotta want to learn if you're gonna get anywhere, otherwise you're gonna fall a lot further."

They fell into silence once more, the light beginning to fade from the sky. Earth wasn't all that different from Heaven; the biggest difference being that there were less rules, less structure and more freedom to simply _be_.

For the first time in his existence, Inias began to think of himself as an individual.

* * *

(**A/N: **A bit of an angsty chapter... sorry about that :( but Inias is doing well :D )


End file.
